Comfort Food
by AgentOfAngst
Summary: Linguini attempts to make comfort food for Colette, but cooking food his mom used to make brings up memories, and soon Colette's the one who has to comfort him.


**Ratatouille is my favorite Pixar movie and so I had to write some stories for it, probably mostly centered around Colette and Linguini's relationship and starting with this one. Stay tuned for more!**

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Croque Monsieur. Renata had made it for him when he was younger. Was it weird to call his mom Renata? Death had shaken up his memories, forced him to look at things from a more adult perspective. She had gone from being his alive and loving mom to the dead and possibly ascended Renata, who had used to make him Croque monsieurs. He'd watched her. The ingredients swirled around in his head even now, as his hands shook a little. He lived with two extremely professional chefs and yet he was shaking from fear making a sandwich that his mom had used to make for him.

No one had asked him to make this sandwich. No one had told him that he needed to start cooking for the house. Because there was no need to, they could make themselves something at the restaurant, Remy or Colette could cook there or in the lovely kitchen here, in their gorgeous apartment. Or they could go out to any restaurant in Paris.

But it had been such a hard day at the restaurant. Such a long day. He didn't want to ask Colette to cook, he didn't want to ask Remy to cook, he just wanted to make them some food. He was not a cook. He was a waiter and a restaurant owner. That's where his talent lay, that's how he kept up his father's legacy, and more importantly, his mother's legacy. He stood in their kitchen, their gorgeous kitchen that he never used. Their gorgeous kitchen that he watched the chefs he cared about dance around in a sort of happy bliss. They were blissful, he was blissful, those were the happiest moments. When the chefs he cared about were happy. Remy was his business partner, Colette was his life partner, and when his partners were in the kitchen they were happy.

When he was in the kitchen, he was in a state of anxiety. He felt stressed and sad and angry all at once, and his hands shook, and he couldn't remember for the life of him how to make this sandwich. He should know how to make a sandwich! That's what Colette had asked for. She'd collapsed on the couch, exhausted from a long day and a busy dinner rush, and asked him to make them sandwiches. She'd been thinking very small scale, but he wanted to make comfort food. That's what they seemed to need today. A little bit of comfort, a little bit of nostalgic comfort. He left the ingredients, went out to their living room, and wrapped Colette in a nearby blanket, kissing her forehead.

"Dinner will be another minute, I wanted to make sure you were comfortable." She leaned up and kissed his cheek.

"Thank you." He stalled for a minute next to her, hugging her from behind, fearing the kitchen.

"I can help," she offered, noticing his reluctance to return.

"No, no, you already cooked for hundreds of people today, let me cook for you now."

"Alright, at least let me set the table."

"Who needs a table? We can eat on the couch."

"That's so irresponsible," Colette laughed, though she clearly dug the idea.

"Then I guess we're irresponsible tonight," Linguini chuckled, returning to the kitchen to be responsible.

It all hit him when he walked in. These thoughts he kept having whenever he tried to make something, especially if it was something his mom had made for him. He was not a very good cook. To be fair, Renata Linguini hadn't been a very good cook either. It was funny how he hadn't remembered that until she had died. Now that he was so familiar with good food he realized how okay at best the food he was used to had been. His cooking was abysmal, okay maybe it was getting better but no one would ever pay to eat his food. His mom was the same. But Gusteau, his father… His father had revolutionized cooking.

There it was, the stress, the sadness, the anger. He was mad at his mom for never telling him about Gusteau. Her dying wish had been to get him a job at his late father's restaurant, not to tell him that his late father was his late father. He'd grown up without a father figure, he hadn't even read the Everybody can cook cookbook, or whatever it was called, Colette and Remy had their copies but he didn't. He'd never read it, and now that he had familial ties… He still didn't want to. It felt awkward, trying to get to know his father through the words of some old book. Especially since his mom had never wanted him to know about Gusteau. That frustrated him endlessly. He could have grown up living and breathing fine cuisine. They would have at the very least been well to do, instead of his mom constantly struggling to make rent. And even if he hadn't grown up with Gusteau in his life, she should have told him about it in death, so that he wasn't left 3000 euros in funeral debt that he hadn't been able to fully repay until he had become Gusteau's son. She could have alleviated that. But she hadn't wanted him to know.

Why? Because it would hurt more to have two parents that were dead? He'd never believed that he had a father, and wasn't that worse? Wasn't it better to know that his dad wasn't in his life because his dad didn't know about him, instead of thinking the man was just dead or negligent or both? No matter how much he puzzled about it in his brain, he couldn't make the pieces fit together. It didn't make sense.

So, back to cooking. That couldn't be as hard as figuring out the impact his late parents had on his life. But this was a Croque monsieur and so it carried the exact same emotional weight. It was frustrating that right now everything was getting to him. It had been a long day.

"Linguini?" Colette called, stepping into the kitchen.

"Yeah, sorry, it'll be ready in a moment." He was almost done, though it wouldn't be super good and his emotional state had been totally wrecked in the pursuit of comfort food.

"Do you need any help?" She asked again.

"No, no I'm okay, everything's okay." She came up behind him, wrapping her arms around him.

"I really appreciate you cooking for me, Linguini. But you don't have to put yourself through this." Linguini broke down then. He just broke down. He'd been trying to take out all of his frustrations on the sandwich, but he really just needed to let it all out. He turned around and she held him close, not asking what was wrong. They'd been together long enough for her to know.

"Please let me help," she whispered, sitting him down at one of the stools by the counter. He nodded, putting his elbows on the counter and watching her rescue his dish.

"I wanted to cook for you…" He mumbled apologetically.

"I know. There will be other chances for you to get more comfortable in our kitchen." She said our like it was the most important thing in the world. She reminded him daily that this was the life they shared together.

"You taught me so much, I should be able to do this…" He mumbled, trying not to cry more than he already had.

"You can learn everything there is to know about cooking and still not have a passion for it."

He sniffled a little.

"My passion is seeing your passion…"

"I know. So let me do the cooking for now, alright? And you can talk to me about whatever has been on your mind." Linguini groaned and put his face in his arms.

"It's dumb," he apologized, not wanting to say it. He felt childish around her, especially while he watched her salvage his mess of a sandwich.

"I'm sure it isn't." Colette was comforting and supportive. He wanted to hug her again but he didn't want to get in the way.

"Fine… I just don't know how to explain it. It sounds weird, or whiny…"

"Stop beating yourself up, Linguini. Just say whatever is on your mind and I promise I won't find it weird or whiny."

"I'm mad at my mom for never telling me who my father was. I'm mad that I never got to meet him, I'm mad that we lived in poverty, I'm mad that I-" he sniffled, "-that I never got to watch him cook, never got to learn from him… I'm mad that I spent my whole life thinking that he just didn't care about me." It felt so good to get that off his chest. He exhaled, feeling relieved but also scared that she would find it weird or whiny.

"That makes perfect sense, Linguini. We'll never understand why she didn't want to tell you, and we'll never know what would happen if Gusteau was in your life. But it's understandable to want what could have been, and it's understandable to be mad that that life is out of reach." Colette set the plate in front of him, offering him a smile.

"You're the most compassionate and loving person I know. But you have to love yourself enough to let yourself feel things. And you don't have to be ashamed if you don't understand your feelings at first. I'm always here to listen." He gazed up at her, sliding the sandwich to the side and kissing her.

"I love you."

"I love you too."

Satisfied, he began to eat his sandwich, and as he ate, he made a promise to himself, "One day, I'll get it right."


End file.
